


Partners

by yay_for_absurdism



Category: Black Cat (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, First Time, Getting Together, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Smut, guys being dudes just murdering and fucking, there is some fluff in there too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yay_for_absurdism/pseuds/yay_for_absurdism
Summary: They were partners. Or, not really, they were just always together. Always had been, right from the start. And that was all.Or, maybe not.
Relationships: Baldorias "Baldor" S. Fanghini/ Kranz Maduke
Kudos: 1





	Partners

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so Black Cat is my favourite manga and I re-read it recently, and then I accidentally wrote a long, in-depth fic about two crazy murder boys who really only show up for one volume but oh well. Black Cat makes me feel a lot of emotions and I love Baldor and Kranz very much so here I am. 
> 
> More or less manga-compliant (tho it does take place before the events of the manga) not anime-compliant. Also I made up a bunch of the backstory stuff. 
> 
> Enjoy!

He didn’t have a lot of concrete memories from his childhood. Who did, really? He remembered the important stuff, like the training that was drilled into him ever since he could walk, and talk, and hold a weapon. He remembered all that, muscle memory now, but there weren't many discrete, specific instances from his earlier years that stuck in his mind. 

When he was nine, probably, thereabouts, he remembered Kranz. It wasn't the first time they had met, but it was this moment that he remembered. He was nine, Kranz a year younger, already bigger than him, with his pale hair cut short, his eyes sharp but calm as they fought. Sparring, hand to hand combat, a routine training match between fledgling assassins. He remembered smiling, grinning like mad because it was fun, not everyone in their group could hold their own against him at all, let alone this long, let alone for him to be on the defensive some of the time. He remembered the pain, the adrenaline, the glee, of them both ending up on the ground punching and kicking and biting and scratching because neither of them would give an inch and admit defeat. He remembered them having to get pulled apart from each other and coming out with some pretty nasty injuries, all things considered. 

He  remembered it being fun. 

…

They didn’t have a lot of downtime, between all the training and learning, eating and sleeping, but they had some. It was during that downtime that, bored, Baldor found Kranz sitting by himself in the little common room they had access too. No one else was around, the other kids in their group nowhere to be found, so with a lack of anything better to do Baldor walked up to him. 

“What are you doing?” He asked. 

“Playing cards.” 

“By yourself?” 

Kranz looked at Baldor, down at the table, with the empty chairs around it, then back up. “Looks like it.” 

Baldor rolled his eyes, and watched as the boy drew three cards from the stack before laying down at ten of spades. Watched him pick up three more, rearrange some stuff, and then eventually get to lay all five of the cards down. 

“Looks boring.” He said, scratching his jaw, where he’d just recently begun growing stubble. 

“It’s not.”

“But you can’t beat anyone when you play alone.” 

“Maybe. But so what?”

“I bet  its more fun with two people, eh?” And he pulled out a chair and sat down. 

Kranz looked at him, eyes narrowing suspiciously. But then he just gathered up the cards he had laid out and began to shuffle. “Do you know how to play any card games?” 

“Nope. Teach me some.” He smirked. “So that I can beat you in cards as well as in training.” 

Kranz laughed, dealing out the cards. “Yeah. Sure. This  game’s called ‘Go Fish’.”

...

He was eighteen, and Kranz still a year younger, when they got promoted. Numbers. Because they were the best, of course, and nearly everyone else from their group had died by now or been discarded along the way or worse. 

Two Time Guardians had just died, serves them right, if you weren’t strong enough to live then you certainly weren't strong enough to be a Time Guardian. 

He got his tattoo on his neck, Kranz at his temple. Four and Eight, black roman numerals etched into their skin forever. And the tattoo still wasn't fully healed, the skin around it still red and puffy, when they were tasked with their first  official mission. 

“Don't get in my way.” he said, looking at his partner as he adjusted his tie. He didn’t like how tight it was around his neck, but it was the required uniform, so he'd get used to it. 

Kranz gave him a small smirk, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. It had grown out since he’d been a kid. “I won’t. As long as you stay out of my way as well.” 

“You won’t have to worry about that.” 

…

Everyone should have known it was a bad idea. Baldor knew it had been right from the get go, and he’d said so, but it wasn’t as if the higher-ups cared. And not that he had any right to dissent, an order was an order and he’d carry it out no matter what. He just didn’t like it. And it was a bad idea. 

So he and Kranz got sent on a mission with the new guy, Number VII,  Jenos . 

And yes, it was  Jenos ’ first real mission, so it made sense that he wasn’t to do it alone. Just, for the love of god, get someone else to babysit the new Number. Anyone else. But no, apparently everyone else was busy. Fuck that. 

Baldor had known of  Jenos ’ existence for about a week and had actually interacted with him for maybe a day and he already knew he didn’t like the man.  Jenos was too... different. All smiles, suavity that was annoying, friendly for no reason, talked way too much, arrogant but not in the right kind of way. Normal, in most regards. That was it. Whatever he and Kranz weren’t. And it pissed him off. 

And worst off all, with the mission over and all completed,  Jenos had dragged the other two men out of the hotel and to a bar to “celebrate”. So now Baldor sat in a half-packed, way too nice and bright and clean bar, with an idiot he wanted nothing to do with. An idiot who would not stop talking to every woman who walked past their table. 

He and Kranz could be back at the hotel. Playing cards. Sleeping. Anything but this. Anything. He prayed that someone here would start a fight out of the blue to give him a reason to punch people and then leave. Maybe he should start the fight. 

He glanced across the table at Kranz, who looked just about as fed up as he was, and the man shook his head. Must be thinking the same thing, must have decided it wasn’t worth it. Baldor cursed under his breath and reached for his drink. 

“Oh, come on.”  Jenos smiled, playfully smacking Baldor on the arm, which made the man almost lunge across the table and break  Jenos ’ hand, “Don’t have such a sour attitude. The ladies won’t like that.” 

His eyes narrowed. “Like I give a fuck.” and he finished his drink. For probably the first time, ever, he wished he could be like Kranz and have the self-control to remain silent. But he couldn’t, he needed to put this idiot in his place.

“What?  Of course you do.” 

“ No I don’t.” he waved a waiter over, ordered a couple more beers. It wasn't as if he disliked drinking. He just disliked drinking like this. 

Jenos placed his elbow on the table, chin on the back of his hand. “You can’t tell me you actually pick up women with your attitude.” 

“I don’t. Why would I need to?” He didn’t need women. He had violence. Different means to the same ends, really. More or less.

Jenos opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again, and after a few seconds, asked. “Have you... ever been with lady?” 

“You mean fucked? Or what? Because either way, no. Never.” 

The way  Jenos looked at him, mouth agape, eyebrows knitted together in... concern? it told him that for some reason, this guy thought he’d said something ridiculous. “Never?” 

“Why? Is that weird?” 

“Weird? Of course it is! Why wouldn’t you-”  Jenos all but cut himself off, “I mean... are you into guys, then?” 

“No.” 

“But, then, what are you... why...”  Jenos stuttered in confusion, “Are you telling me you don’t have any interest in meeting a beautiful woman, getting to know her, and then spending a passionate night  together ?”

He laughed, popped the top of one of the beers that had been placed before him by the waiter. “No.” 

Jenos looked at Kranz, eyes wide and desperate and searching for some reasonable explanation. Hah. As if. Kranz just looked back at him, coolly, raising his own drink to his lips. “We exist to fight. Nothing more.” 

Baldor smirked. “Well said.” 

On the  bright side,  Jenos never attempted to go drinking with them again. 

…

To  Jenos ’ credit, he thought about it. Once. Or so. After a mission, he stood on the balcony of one of Chronos’ headquarters, looking down at the city below. The HQ was located in the city’s downtown core, a relatively busy city on a relatively busy strip of shops. It was late, the bright moon above competing with the city lights, and on a third-story balcony he could see the people below just fine, people out and about on a Saturday night. 

He watched the people, men in casual clothes, in sports jackets or leather boots, women in short skirts, tight dresses, heels that could in all honesty be a decent weapon if wielded correctly. He thought about it, going down there, finding a woman who suited him. He watched a woman go, blue dress under a black jacket, blond hair shining silver in the neon storefront lights. 

But he didn’t want to. He only thought about it. He pushed himself off the balcony railing, took one look at the moon above, and headed back inside where Kranz was waiting. 

...

“You tell me what  happened right fucking now!” 

The doctor, face ashen with fear, looked sidewards at Baldor’s fist, imbedded in the wall just inches from said sniveling doctor’s ear. “Mr.  Fanghini , p-please, not in a hospital-” 

He drew his fist back and slammed it into the wall again, the drywall crumbling beneath his hand. “Does it look like I fucking care?” he hissed. “Tell me what happened. Or give me his fucking file and I’ll read it myself.” 

“There was an explosion-” 

“I know that much!” And as he pulled his arm back yet again the doctor ducked, quickly, to grab a manilla folder off of his desk. 

Baldor snatched it out of the man’s hands, pulling it open with enough force to rip the front of the folder. His eyes scanned, quick enough that he was tripping on the words, as the doctor said something. Something he didn’t hear, really, just a useless, whimpering droning in the background. 

It would all sink in later, but at the time Baldor only picked up what he needed to understand. The target had planted bombs around him, but when backed into a corner because of course he had, he’d made the mistake of stepping on one of his own bombs. And it detonated. And then the sentences were just a jumble of words. Shrapnel. Burns. Optic nerve. Respiratory arrest. Broken arm. Broken ribs. Punctured lung. Compound fracture. Medical drivel that was foreign to him but enough that he could understand. 

The doctor’s words came back into focus as he reached the end. “-he’s not in any danger of dying-” 

“Of course he’s fucking not.” Baldor hissed, tossing the folder back onto the desk and spinning on his heels. He’d gotten Kranz’s room number from the file. He just had to see for himself. 

What he hadn’t wanted to see, or more accurately, been ready to see, was his partner lying in a hospital bed almost too small for his large frame, the visible parts of his body covered nearly entirely in bandages. Tentatively, he stepped forwards, amid the rhythmic, robotic beeping of the machines, to stand beside the bed. Kranz's arms lay on the thin hospital blankets, an IV tucked into the crook of his elbow, the bandages wrapped around him tinted pink. 

The one fucking time they’d been on solo missions. Of fucking course. 

Baldor’s eyes moved upwards, up the arms to the chest and shoulders, and it shouldn't have been hard but it was, to look at Kranz’s face. Or what was left. Or what was visible, beneath the bandages and the tube down his throat to help him breath. 

The machines were beeping, and the tube would be doing his job, but Baldor reached out, held two fingers to his partner’s wrist. Trying to ignore the way that Kranz, despite being unconscious, pulled away from his touch, he pressed down, and a moment later found a pulse  through the bandages, slow and weak and erratic put still undeniably a pulse. 

Kranz wasn't in any danger of dying.  Of course he wasn’t. But that was a small comfort. Dying wasn’t the worst outcome. 

He looked back at Kranz’s face, unrecognizable if not for the pale hair and angular jaw, and it was too much. He withdrew his hand and left, pushing the doors open hard enough to fright the nurse in the hall half to death. Not that he cared. Fuck her. Fuck everyone and everything, really. He could still hear the beeping in his head, beeping he’d heard plenty of times because it wasn't as if this was the first time Kranz or himself had been seriously injured and sent to Chronos’ medical wing. But nothing like this. Nothing like  _ this _ .

He was far away by now, somewhere quiet, in some dim, secluded hall he didn’t know how  he'd gotten to. Very much unlike himself, he leaned against the wall, slid to the ground, and put his head in his hands. He would have liked to say he didn’t cry, but he did, but since there was no one around to witness it he could sometimes pretend that he hadn’t. 

...

A month. It had been a month. More or less. A bit more. But Kranz was out of the hospital, finally, able to walk without a limp and his arm was out of the sling and the burns were well on their way to healing. That was the perk of being created to be an efficient killing machine, you had increased healing abilities. A normal person would have died. Even most other Numbers would have been out of  commission permanently. 

But healing abilities be damned, Baldor thought bitterly, because being able to recover quicker than average couldn’t bring back someone’s eyesight. 

It was late, early morning more than late at night, and Baldor left his room to walk down the quiet, still halls of the Chronos Headquarters. Not being able to sleep was rare, but he wasn’t going to waste this time by lying in bed and just thinking. Might as well do something worthwhile, and as such his feet brought him to the  place he could be the most useful while not actually being out on a mission. 

Surprisingly, at this hour, the training area wasn’t empty. The lights were on, almost too low to see, but that made sense seeing who was training at this hour. Baldor stopped at the doorway, didn’t go in, didn’t say anything, just watched Kranz for a minute. 

The man looked normal. Yeah, sure, except for the bandages still wrapped around the really bad injuries, and the scarf he had tied around his head, like a blindfold, just about covering up all the still-healing wounds that would inevitably scar, and the shakiness in his movements. 

Kranz paused, wiping a bead of sweat from his cheek, and then turned towards the entrance. “Baldor?”

He detached himself from the wall, walked towards his partner. “How did you know it was me?” 

“I recognized your footsteps,” a small smile lit the man’s lips, something self-deprecating and void of humor, “I can at least do that much.” 

The fragility, the vulnerability of it, it made Baldor’s skin crawl. It made anger bubble up in the pit of his stomach. He bit his lip,  tasting blood. 

“Did you come here to train?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Then join me. Do you want to spar?” 

“Are you-” but he bit his tongue, kept the  _ kidding me? _ from tumbling out of his mouth. That was cruel. As if Kranz hadn’t been hurting enough. But fuck, since when had Baldor cared about hurting someone’s feelings?

Maybe it was just the way that Kranz’ voice had barely, just  audibly , broken at the end of his sentence. 

“If you want.” he said, already kicking off his shoes. No matter what, it wasn't as if he’d ever turn down a fight. 

“I do.” 

How long had it been since they had sparred? It wasn't something they needed to do, it wasn't as if they didn’t have enough missions to keep them sharp and in shape. And when sparring, you weren't supposed to kill your opponent, so where was the fun in that?

The two men circled each other, slowly, on tiptoes, as close to dancing as either of them had ever been. As it always was, Baldor threw the first punch, as much to test the waters as to try to catch his opponent off guard. Which never worked against Kranz, except for now, when the larger man was barely able to get an arm up to block Baldor’s fist from hitting him in the face. 

That anger come bubbling up again in the pit of Baldor’s stomach, crawling up his throat like something rancid and bitter. He stepped forwards and attacked again. 

The first jab was blocked, his fist connecting with his partner’s forearm, but the second one slipped through the block, connecting with the side of the man's head. Kranz retaliated, stepping into a powerful right hook, forcing Baldor to dodge the attack in its entirety. That was enough to break bone, he knew that. Even like this, a little shaky, a little hesitant, it was still a dangerous blow. 

But shaky and hesitant it was, and Baldor was able to get in a quick right-left before Kranz threw his block back up. It went back and forth, shot for shot, more or less, in the dim, almost silent training room, the only sound their feet on the ground and labored  breath. Kranz was probably breathing heavy from the exertion, the most since getting out of the hospital. Baldor was breathing heavy from barely contained rage. 

He was pulling his punches. He never pulled his punches. Who the fuck, as a Time Guardian, would ever pull their fucking punches?

It wasn't fair. Kranz had been such a good fighter. Lethal. In some ways, unmatched. And now he wasn't he was like this, unable to hold his own in a fist fight,  _ a goddamned close-range fight, that was his specialty.  _ Now he was no better than any Eraser, really. No better than... well... 

Baldor was done pulling his punches. He put all his strength into his next blow. And his fist connected with Kranz’s jaw. 

The man’s head whipped around, and he staggered back, and Baldor followed it up with a blow to the shoulder that was enough to get Kranz off balance, and then a kick to his knee that had him toppling to the ground. 

Too easy. Too fucking easy. 

With a growl, Baldor advanced, knocking Kranz back to the ground as the man tried to get up. It was maddening how easy it was to pin him down, easier than it had ever been, even back when they were young enough that a year of difference in age was enough to mean something, battle-wise. Straddling Kranz’s torso, Baldor brought his arm back, and punched his partner in the face. And then he did it again. And again. 

It wasn’t fighting. It wasn't breaking a rule, it wasn't committing treason. It was training, sparring, and it would stop as soon as one of them said so. 

But Kranz didn’t say anything. He didn’t try to speak, protest, get a word in edgewise between the punches. He didn’t even evade the attacks, didn’t even put up a meager defense, an arm up to deflect the blows at the very least. He just let Baldor hit him, again and again and again and again. 

His hand was bloody, both Kranz’s blood and his own, from knuckles worn raw, when he stopped. He had his fist pulled back, ready for one more punch, but he just dropped his arm by his side. And for a long moment, they were both silent, the only sound in the cavernous training room their heavy breathing. 

“Why did you stop?” Kranz asked, eventually, voice thick with blood. 

“Why did you want to spar with me when you knew you couldn’t hold your own?” 

“What else would I do?”

There was more to that question, and they both knew it. Hanging heavy in the air for the past month, unsaid between them, between anyone, heavy and looming and inevitable, was that big,  all-encompassing question. The verbal equivalent to how the explosion had all but burnt off Kranz’s tattoo.  _ You can’t be a Number like this. So then what else would you do? _

Baldor didn’t have an answer to that. Not that he couldn’t think of one, no, it was that there was no answer to that question. There was nothing else to do. There was only battle, only violence, a life of bloodshed and blood loss, of either winning or dying. Without being a Number, there was nothing. No point to their lives. 

“Die.” 

He couldn’t see Kranz’s eyes, of course not, but the surprise was evident on the man's face nonetheless. And it surprised him too, that he’d said such a thing. That wasn’t what he wanted, he didn’t want Kranz to die, he’d never want that even though, logically, they would both end up dead in battle someday. Replaced by a new IV and VIII, just like they had replaced the ones before them. But yet the word had come from his lips, and they both knew that he was right. 

Slowly, Kranz nodded, a small, but unmistakable motion. “Then kill me.” 

Ah. Yes. That made sense. There was no pride, no valor, in killing yourself, was there? And wasn’t that what they were made for, to be tools of violence until violence took them out. It would be easy, a well-placed punch, maybe just pressing down on Kranz’s throat long until he stopped moving and breathing and his pulse faded out into nothing. 

Surely, Baldor could find a way to explain it to the higher-ups. They were training, Kranz had asked him to, all that would be the truth, all he would have to do is lie about it being an accident. He wasn’t known for lying, and his reputation for violence would lend credence to his story. He would find a way to make sure he didn’t get branded a traitor and have his own rank and life stripped from him. 

It would be easy. He’d killed so many people in his life, why would this be any different? 

For maybe the first time in his life, Baldor decided to take the second option. Not the kill. Maybe you could call it mercy, or the exact opposite. “I won’t,” he said, and he could have offered a reason but he didn’t. He just sat there for a moment longer, feeling Kranz’s chest heave with each labored breath beneath him, before he got up, offering his partner a hand to help him up. Which Kranz didn’t take. He didn’t move. 

Maybe it was because the man couldn’t see the hand offered to him.  So Baldor reached down, grabbing Kranz’s wrist, and hauled him to his feet. 

…

“You’ve made his injuries a lot worse.”  Sephiria said, looking at him with those kind, kind, and deadly eyes. 

He blew a bubble, let it pop, continued chewing his gum. “Yeah.” Not that he’d said anything, and Kranz wouldn't have said anything either, but it would have been obvious enough. He’d expected this conversation, sooner or later, though he’d been hoping that maybe no one would say anything about it. 

Sephiria sighed, lacing her fingers together before her. “I’m not going to ask why you would do such a thing,” she said, “But I will tell you that that sort of action will not be tolerated again. You can’t hurt a fellow Time Guardian.” 

Having  Sephiria talk to him like this was maybe the closest thing Baldor had ever had to being scolded by a mother. It was strange, and oddly terrifying. “It was just sparring.” 

Again,  Sephiria sighed, sounding exasperated when she spoke. “I know you have been having a difficult time with all this, so I want to give you some leeway. Because I know you, you’re not one to break the rules. But. That being said. You know the rules. You know the punishment. You know not to do this ever again.  Understood ?” 

Well, he wasn’t the one having a hard time with this, but whatever. Whatever got him off the hook. “ Understood .” he replied, and she looked satisfied with that, but because he was curious, and he wasn't Kranz, he couldn’t just keep his mouth shut, he asked, “If I would have killed him, would you kill me?” 

If  Sephiria was  surprised by his question, she didn’t show it. “Kill you? No. But action would be taken.” 

That sounded more terrifying than death, spoken in her soft voice like that. “Even if it was an accident?” 

She narrowed her eyes, and Baldor had the feeling she knew exactly what had transpired, somehow. “It would never have been an accident.” 

...

It wasn't a surprise, and he shouldn’t have doubted his partner for even a minute, but Kranz bounced back just fine. He didn’t need to see to fight. He could sense and hear movement and that was more than enough, more than enough to have him back in active duty where he belonged. 

And finally, after month after month after fucking month of solo missions, Baldor had his partner back. 

“Ready to go?” 

Kranz smiled at him, a rare smile, and adjusted his helmet. The new helmet that had been made specially for him, that covered up all his facial scars, with his number etched into the plate over his left eye. Inches away from where the tattoo had been. “More than ready.” he replied. 

It wasn't as if Baldor needed a partner. He could do damn well anything on his own. It was just... it was what he was used to. Even if they didn’t help each other, the presence was comforting. No, not comforting, comfort was for weak people. It was what he was used to. 

Either way, he fought with a wicked grin on his face, the faint buzz of Mars vibrating like music to his ears on the battlefield. The adrenaline, the chaos, the smell of gunpowder and blood and fear, it was always there on missions, but like this, it was even better. 

But something, something was somehow different. 

It wasn't someone he was fighting. And it was just some lackey, some pitiful henchman that had gotten in far over his head, some idiot with a gun that hadn’t ever expected to be fighting a Chronos Time Guardian. It was just a bullet, just a normal bullet fired from a normal gun in the hands of a normal person, something Kranz could handle just fine on his own. But. For a second it didn’t matter. For a second it was noise, white noise, the beeping of the hospital machines, an explosion Baldor had never seen, and his hand moved on its own, Heimdall changing course in midair to intercept the bullet, then careen straight through the skull of the idiot who’d fired it. 

And then there was white hot pain in his own shoulder, and attention turning back to his own fight, he stared down the smoking barrel of a gun. “Motherfucker.” he hissed, and a moment later his own opponent was dead, still-smoking gun clattering to the floor. 

They completed the mission, more or less flawlessly, killed everyone they needed to and left the cleanup for people more suited to that sort of job. And back at the hotel, Baldor sat in the bathroom digging a bullet out of his shoulder. 

It wasn't anything serious, just imbedded in muscle tissue, having missed any major blood vessels, nothing a pair of big tweezers and a copious amount of antiseptic couldn’t handle. In no time at all he’d patched himself up, as much as he needed to, and he strode out of the bathroom with a bandage around his shoulder and his bloody shirt in his hand. 

Kranz was sitting on his bed, half dressed. His shoes were off, jacket hung up with his shirt and tie, only wearing the black high-necked, long-sleeved undershirt he wore to hide his injuries. With his gloves off, Baldor could see the scars, mostly burns, on his fingers. He looked away, tossing his shirt on his own bed. 

“Bathroom’s all your.” He said, grabbing his jacket from where he’d tossed it earlier, over the back of a chair, and pulled a half-full pack of gum out of the pocket. 

He didn’t get a response. Understandable, because yes, Kranz was the silent type, but not like this. Something about this silence was different. “What?” he asked his partner. 

“Why did you do that?” 

The man’s voice was level, stoic, like it always was. But it still gave Baldor pause. “Do what?” he asked, as if he didn’t know.

“Block that bullet.” 

What was he supposed to say? He just shrugged, hoping Kranz would sense the  nonchalantness of his movement. He put the gum back in his jacket pocket. 

“You didn’t need to.” 

As if Baldor didn’t know that. He’d watched Mars slice through bullets with ease, before and after Kranz had lost his sight. The man wouldn’t be out here on active duty if he couldn’t do that much. And he knew Kranz knew that he knew that. So what the fuck was he supposed to say? Especially since, in all honesty, he didn’t entirely know his own intentions behind his actions. And if he did, well, he wouldn’t admit to them. 

“I just did it. So what?” he said, in a tone he knew Kranz would understand as a demand for the conversation to be over. 

Kranz turned to look at him, no, not fucking look at him, just turned his head towards him, and said, “That’s not something the  Baldorias I know would do.” 

He bristled. “Don't call me that.” Baldor snapped, hands clenching into fists. 

But Kranz continued. “The  Baldorias I know works alone, and would never interfere in someone else's fight. The  Baldorias I know would let them-” 

“I said don’t call me that!” he closed the gap between them in a moment and grabbed Kranz by the shirtfront, yanking him forwards. It wasn't often that he looked down at his partner like this. “Why do you give a fuck about what I do, anyways?” 

For some reason, that question made Kranz stutter. “You’re just... acting different. And it’s odd. I... just...” 

God damn it, it was hard to read someone’s face when all you could see was their cheeks and their lips. But it was somehow enough. It made his anger fizzle, settle down into something else, something  more tame , a bit confused, still impassioned but not as violent. “Are you... worried about me?” he asked, and though Kranz didn’t reply, that was an answer in and of itself. 

Maybe they were in the same boat, then. Not that he would say that out loud. 

He let go of Kranz’s shirt. “I’m fine.” A beat of silence. “Are you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good. Good. Great. Fuck this.” and he turned on his heels, walked back towards his own bed, towards the chair his jacket was thrown over, the gum he’d meant to have. 

In three quick, long strides he was back in front of Kranz. He shoved his partner back, heel of his palm connecting with the man’s shoulder, pushing him down against the bed sheets. Kranz went willingly, not fighting back, not when Baldor kneeled on the bed, straddling him. Not even when Baldor reached down and pulled his helmet off, tossing it somewhere beside the bed, leaving the man’s face bare to the world. 

The burns and the shrapnel scars merged together in a mess of ragged skin, spanning the majority of the upper half of Kranz’s face. There was some normal skin, uncomfortably smooth next to the rest of it, some remnants of an eyebrow, a slightly altered hairline from where hair would no longer grow. A small amount of black ink, of the IV tattoo, peeking through the scars. 

When he’d been  more calm , he’d read the full medical report. A piece of shrapnel had cut though Kranz’s right eye, deep enough to completely sever the optic nerve. That eye was gone in its entirety, the eyelid permanently closed. The rest had been done away by the heat of the explosion, leaving scarred skin and another unusable eye. It was a miracle that Kranz could still hear just fine, ears more or less undamaged except for some burns and the tip of his right ear having been cut off.

Baldor reached out, hand resting of Kranz’s chest, just below the man’s collarbone. His fingers slid higher, hooking under the collar of his shirt, pulling it down as far as it would go. Not very far, just far enough to see a jagged line of scar tissue cut across Kranz’s pale skin, from behind his ear to lower, beneath his collar, far lower, ending at a point unseen on his chest. Baldor pulled the shirt, trying to see more, but he only succeeded in ripping the clothing under his fingers. So he curled his fingers into the fabric and pulled, hard, hand coming away with a fistful of black cloth. 

Beneath him, Kranz let out a soft hiss, back arching a bit off the bed, and he batted Baldor’s hand away when the man reached down again. Before Baldor could complain, Kranz shifted, and doing the best he could while laying down and having another man sitting on him, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it to the side, somewhere onto the floor. 

Hands coming down to lay splayed across Kranz’s chest, Baldor wondered if they were on the same page. As if he even knew what page he was on, as he ran his fingers over the rough terrain of his partner’s body, mapping the scars he’d known existed but hadn’t seen up close for long enough to really see them. What was he doing, running his thumb over a thin, ragged line that cut down Kranz’s ribs, from under his arm to just above his hip? What did he want, tracing a lattice of burns that eventually disappeared under the man’s beltline, thinking about how far they kept going? 

And what was Kranz doing, letting him do this, letting him touch the larger man’s body in a way that was entirely foreign to both of them, without any lethal force, any intent to injure?

His hands travelled lower, and he unbuckled Kranz’s belt. 

It was evident to him, and probably to Kranz as well, that they were both hard. A side effect of battle, really, a side effect of violence, of blood and adrenaline and anger. At least for him, he assumed the same for Kranz. They were birds of a feather, after all.

When he pulled down the zipper of his partner’s pants, Kranz said, “I can’t take my pants off if you’re sitting on me.” 

Fair. Baldor slid off, stood back up, watched his partner sit up. Kranz pulled his pants off, tossed them  to the floor, and then readjusted his position on the bed, farther back, leaning back against the pillows and the headboard. After a second of just watching, Baldor kicked off his own pants, and they were both naked, and he got back on the bed. 

He’d seen Kranz naked before. Inevitable, after having known each other this long. But not since he’d been injured, not since a plethora of new scars had joined the old ones. Kneeling before his partner, he wrapped his hand around Kranz’s thigh, fingers digging into the thick muscle, thumb pressing against one of those new scars. He ran his thumb down the length of it, tapering off just above the man’s knee. 

“I don’t even know how many new scars there are.” Kranz said,  softly, “ I can’t see them.” 

“Thats fine.” Baldor mumbled in reply, “I can.” And he raised Kranz’s leg, hooking the man’s knee over his shoulder, and sunk his teeth into the scar. He felt Kranz’s entire body tense, watched one hand fist in the thin hotel blanket. Licking the wound he’d made, tasting the bit of blood he’d drawn, he moved along the scar, up Kranz’s thigh, teeth breaking the skin again and again. Watching Kranz’s reaction each time, listening to him bite back a moan, a cry, whatever noise he was trying to hide. 

Fuck. Why was this so damn good, getting him more riled up than the fight earlier, making his adrenaline spike more than getting shot in the shoulder, making his heart race more than killing? He reached out, pressed his thumb against a new scar on Kranz’s hip, hard enough to bruise if you could bruise scar tissue, unconsciously licking his lips as his partner let out a soft noise. He could taste blood on his lips.  Goddamnit . 

“I’m going to fuck you.” he said. 

The statement hung in the air between them for a long, silent moment. Long enough that Baldor began to wonder if maybe Kranz hadn’t heard him. Which was stupid, of course, there was no way Kranz would miss that. So, then...

Kranz spoke, eventually. “Why aren’t you doing anything? I thought you said you were going to fuck me?” 

He laughed, loud and sharp enough that Kranz flinched. Guess he didn’t have to ask. “I am. Don’t worry.” 

He licked his fingers, pressed them to his partner’s hole. Either way, he didn’t need to do too much, with or without prep Kranz should be fine. He was strong. It couldn’t hurt too much. Though Baldor couldn’t say he had any practical knowledge to back that up. 

He might not have any practical experience but the theoretical knowledge was there. And that should be good enough, Kranz was in the same boat as him after all. They’d figure it out, somehow. 

Pulling his fingers out, he spat in his hand, spread it on the head of his cock. Good enough. Probably. Whatever. One hand on Kranz’s thigh, leg still over his shoulder, the other on his partner’s hip, he thrust his hips forwards.

The tip pressed in, slipped in, inch by inch, until he bottomed out, hips flush against his partner's ass. It was different. Strange. New. Tight, warm, way different from just jerking off. Fucking amazing, he could feel the excitement, pleasure, adrenaline buzzing through his veins. He pulled back, rolled his hips forwards, and Kranz gasped, holding the sheets tight enough to rip. Ah, fuck. It was good. Baldor thrust his hips again, and again, quickly, sharply, building up a pace that made the headboard slam into the wall, made Kranz hold on so tightly that the sheets did rip under his grasp.

He knew some other Numbers thought Kranz was too emotionless, weirdly, robotically so. But that wasn't true. He only seemed that way next to Baldor’s brashness. Kranz could show emotion just fine, like he was now, cheeks burning a deep red, mouth open, slack, letting out soft sounds that Baldor would never have guessed he could make. Blush running down his neck, making the scars and normal skin all one even shade of pink. 

He looked good like this, and Baldor couldn’t describe why. 

Hands leaving the bedsheets, Kranz reached up, fingers wrapping around Baldor’s upper arm. He pulled, bringing the smaller man down, close, close enough that he could wrap his arms around his partner’s shoulders. Pulled him down so they were skin to skin, Kranz’s leg bent up against his chest. It was hard to breath, hard to move like this, but Baldor didn’t let that stop him. 

Like this, Kranz pressed into the bullet wound on Baldor’s shoulder. A dull ache, a dull, pulsing pain, that switched to searing hot pain as Kranz’s hand dug into the new wound, hard, enough to reopen it, pull  the broken skin farther apart. Blood soaked through the bandage and dripped down, down Baldor’s chest, landing drop by drop on Kranz’s skin. 

It wasn't as if the pain was bad. Not at all. It only made his pulse thrum even louder in his veins, the heat pooling in the pit of his stomach swell. He was close. 

One of Kranz’s arms let go of him, hand slipping between their bodies, to take his own cock in his hand. He must be close too. 

Thrusts still hard but the rhythm growing erratic, Baldor tightened his grip on his partner. Kranz held on tighter too, legs wrapping around his thin waist, fingers digging into his shoulder. It was enough, more than enough, too much, and he bit down to muffle his voice, hard, where Kranz’s neck met shoulder, where a ragged burn scar cut the skin, drawing blood instantly. He came, and seconds later, Kranz did as well. The world went white, white hot, pleasure spiking, and then it was over, silent, still, climax waning quick. 

He could feel Kranz’s breath, warm, shaky, on his cheek, the man’s lips inches from his ear. 

Sitting up, pushing wet hair back from his face, Baldor pulled out. It was only then that he noticed the blood, drying on Kranz’s skin, spotting on the sheets beneath them. Ah. How had he not noticed? 

With a grunt, Kranz pushed himself into a seated position. He looked a mess, sweaty and flushed with blood, both Baldor’s and his own, dripping down his front. 

For a long moment silence hung in the air, until Baldor said, “You should go shower.” 

Kranz nodded, silently, and got up, admittedly difficultly. The bathroom door closed, the sound of running water starting up a few seconds later. 

And Baldor sat on the bed, waiting. After a minute he stood up, got a piece of gum, sat back down. the room was warm, the smell of blood and sweat heavy in the air. Ah well, it wasn't bad. He ran a hand through his hair again. He waited. 

With the adrenaline waning, his limbs felt heavy, tired, languid. His shoulder hurt, and he reached up, feeling the soaked-through bandage, the blood drying on his skin. It would have been fine, healing on its own to fade into a scar, but being ripped open and apart like this, he’d need stiches. Ah, well, it was only fair. 

Why had he done what he’d done? 

The bathroom door opened, and Kranz walked out, towel wrapped around his waist, blood all washed off from his skin. Baldor watched him, watched him walk, a bit slowly, hesitantly, make his way to his bed, find the edge and sit down. 

He hadn’t missed the faint limp in his partner’s walk. 

“Did it hurt?” he asked. 

“Yes.” 

“Was it bad?”

“No... I wouldn’t say so.” Kranz pushed back a few strands of hair, still damp, that had fallen in front of his face. “But next time, maybe be a bit more careful.” 

Oh. Next time. “Okay.” 

...

They were going to eliminate some rich guy, some rich guy who owned a bank but had also recently been implicated in illegal weapons trafficking. But said rich guy would be arriving tomorrow via private jet, so today, well, they could only wait. 

Baldor pushed open the door to the room they were temporarily staying in at the local Chronos Headquarters, a six pack of beer in hand. He tossed his jacket on his bed, walked past where Kranz lay on his own bed. Not sleeping, but it sure looked like it.

“I’m bored.” Baldor groaned, placing the beers on the little table in the room. 

“You just got back.” 

“So?” He sat down. “I was bored before I came back. C’mon, stop laying there, let's play cards.”

Kranz’s voice dripped with incredulousness. “Really?” 

“Yeah, really. I got Braille cards, so stop complaining and get over here.” 

The bed creaked, and a moment later Kranz sat across the table from him. “Braille cards?” 

“Yeah. You were learning Braille, weren’t you?” 

“I was, but...” 

It hadn’t been an easy thing to find. But if Chronos had an information network that could take down underground shadow governments, then it could definitely find a place to buy blind people cards. And so what if it was a bit of an extraneous use of resources. Of all the ways that people could take advantage of the resources at hand, this was a pretty harmless thing to do.

After shuffling, he dealt the cards. “Let's play Go Fish.” 

He watched Kranz take off his  gloves , pick up his cards, run his thumb along the face side, feeling the small raised points. Watched a small grin tug at the man’s lips as he rearranged them in his hand. “You didn’t have to.” he said. 

Baldor shrugged, a smile crossing his lips as well. “Playing cards by yourself is boring. Got any fours?”

“Go fish.” 

Really, cards were boring in general. And he figured Kranz thought so as well, but at least it was a better way to spend time than just staring at a wall, waiting for the opportunity to get up and fight. Or, better than just sitting in darkness, alone. 

He opened himself a beer, passed one to Kranz, who opened it with his teeth. 

Either way, it was definitely better than playing cards by yourself. 

He glanced over at his partner, who tucked the card he’d just picked up between two others. Watched him quickly check the number on each card with a quick movement of his thumb. Baldor leaned a bit closer. 

“Stop trying to look at my cards.” Kranz said, holding his hand closer to his chest. “Got any aces?” 

“How… how can you tell? And go fish.” 

He grinned, bringing his beer to his lips. “I’ve always had better senses than you.” he said, not at all tinged with an air of superiority “And with one sense gone, the others became even better.” 

“Figured that was just a myth. Queens?” 

“Go fish.  So did I. But  apparently it’s not. Got any eights?” 

Baldor tossed his eight of clubs across the table, which Kranz found easily. “Wouldn't expect any less from you.” 

For a moment Kranz paused, looking like he was going to say something, but then he placed his eight on the table, over top of the other. “Of course not.” and he finished his beer. 

…

The mission was completed, targets eliminated, a trail of dead bodies littered around the fancy fucking country estate that had, until very recently, acted as the main base for an extensive counterfeit currency operation. A whole lot of things Baldor didn’t care about, but god, had there been a lot of guards for such a remote location. And a couple high-powered mounted machine gun. Oh, that had been great, so satisfying to destroy. So exciting. 

Heimdall lay at his feet, dripping blood onto the lavish carpet, inches away from where Kranz knelt before him. Leaning against the wall, pants pulled down just far enough, he watched his partner take his cock in his mouth. 

Since that first time, it had become a semi-consistent habit. Finish a mission, and if the blood was boiling enough, if the battle had left them with excess adrenaline running through their veins, they would fuck. Or whatever the circumstances allowed. A logical progression of their partnership, probably. More or less. Or whatever. Who cared, really? 

Laying on the ground beside Heimdall, similarly spattered with blood, was Kranz’s helmet. It got in the way, sort of, and Baldor would rather thread his fingers through Kranz’s hair than hold onto the cool, sleek metal. The way Kranz’s throat would tighten up when he pulled was good too. And he’d rather see his partner’s face. 

He felt his cock hit the back of Kranz’s throat and he let out a shuddering breath. His second hand joined the first, pulling his partner closer, taking control of the pace. One of Kranz’s hands was on his thigh, holding on for support, and it twitched, gripping harder at the quicker pace. Kranz’s other hand was beneath the man's body, between his legs, not visible from Baldor’s vantage point. 

His gaze flickered away from his partner’s face to his visible hand. There was blood on Kranz’s gloves, the blood of some man who was lying dead somewhere in the room, dying the white fabric a bright pinkish-red. It was still wet, he could feel it, and if his pants weren't so  dark he’d be able to see it transfer to his own clothing. 

Baldor gritted his teeth, and tightened his grip in Kranz’s hair. The hand on his thigh gripped even harder, hard enough to bruise, and a few moments later he came with a grunt, curling forwards. His vision went white behind his eyelids, and he felt Kranz swallow around him, but then the hand on his thigh was gone and he heard a dull thud from across the room. When he opened his eyes, coming down from his high, he saw a man pinned to the far wall, Mars imbedded deep within his chest. Well fuck. 

“There was one left?” Baldor asked, voice breathy, labored, leaning against the wall for support. 

Kranz looked up at him, wiping his lips on his sleeve. “You didn’t hear him?” he asked, voice just as out of breath. He must have just come too. 

“No.” He’d been a bit busy. And he wasn't the one with the heightened senses. 

In response Kranz just smirked, tucked himself back into his pants, and stood up. Ah, fuck, the realization that Kranz had killed someone while sucking him off made him irrationally ready for another round. Even more so when the man went to retrieve his knife, having to really wrench it out of the wall. It must have gone in deep. 

But work came first. He pulled his pants back up, took the phone out of his pocket. “Yeah, we’re all done.” he said into the  receiver , watching Kranz smooth back his hair before putting his helmet back on. “You can come clean up now.” 

...

Baldor woke up in the middle of the night, not for any real reason, but when he rolled over light hit him in the face. He didn’t remember leaving the blinds open, and as he blinked, trying to see in the dimness, he saw Kranz’s large frame standing at the window, face and scars illuminated by the neon street lights below. 

“What?” he asked, voice still thick with sleep, “Can’t sleep?” 

“It’s loud.” Kranz replied. 

The downside of having better hearing, apparently. Not that Baldor noticed that this location was louder than any other. And they’d been here before, the Chronos HQ located on a surprisingly busy downtown street in a decent-sized city. The faint, distant sound of the streets, muted somewhat by the walls and windows, had never bothered Kranz before. But things had changed in the years since then. 

Baldor sat up, yawning, scratching his jaw, at the stubble he’d shave in the morning. “What time is it?” 

“About two.” 

He should just roll over, go back to bed, leave Kranz to his problem, because it wasn’t as if he could do anything to help. But he didn’t, of course he didn’t. “Don’t just stand there. You should distract yourself. Like, maybe, go play cards.” he paused, pushing the covers off. “Or come here.” 

After a moment of silence, Kranz stepped away from the window, closing the blinds as he did. It was nearly pitch black in the room, dark enough that Baldor could only see the outline of Kranz’s body as he knelt on the bed,  mattress dipping under his weight. 

“You think that if I tire you out enough, you’ll be able to sleep even if it’s loud out there?” he asked, his smirk definitely audible in his voice. 

“I’d like to see you try.” Kranz shot back, but then said, “Hopefully.” 

Like it often went, he reached out, hand on his partner's chest, pushed him back down against the bed. Nudged his knees apart, knelt between his legs. It was dark so he had to rely on touch, but he found the waistline of Kranz’s underwear, pulled them off, tossed them somewhere. He heard Kranz take off his shirt. He felt a hand grip his arm, pull him closer, and he flinched in surprise at the contact. 

Was this what it was like to be blind, he thought. He focused on his sense of hearing, sense of touch, the movements of his partner. It was strange, alienating, the darkness oppressive enough that everything felt far away and right in front of him at the same time. He closed his eyes,  opened them, and there was barely a difference. It must be hard. It must be horrible. Just how fucking loud was it outside? He felt pity, pity like he hadn’t felt since he’d almost killed his partner. It felt terrible. 

“Baldor?” Kranz asked, voice soft but reverberating in the darkness. 

It wasn't something they had ever done, because it wasn’t necessary. But he reached out, found Kranz’s face, hands feeling up his chest, neck, fingers curling into the short strands of hair at his nape. And he leaned forwards to kiss his partner. 

Kranz stiffened for a moment, in surprise at the unexpected contact, but then he leaned into it, parting his lips, pulling Baldor closer still. It wasn’t a soft, romantic, loving, kiss by any means, or a very good one, probably. It was mostly teeth hitting teeth, hitting lip, saliva dripping down their chins, but anything else would have felt wrong. Baldor sunk his teeth into Kranz’s bottom lip, causing the larger man’s grip on him to tighten, and after a second of delay he tasted blood. Good. Good. He felt the warm, coppery liquid drip down his lip, and Kranz licked it up. Fuck. 

His lips left Kranz’s, moving down his jaw, his neck, following the lines of scar tissue he couldn’t see but had memorized by now. Down his chest, stomach, hands following as well, each tracing their own lattice of scars. Down until he reached Kranz’s lower abdomen, a small trail of soft, pale hair, his cock, half hard. 

Baldor licked up the length of his shaft, took the head in his mouth. He felt Kranz’s legs tighten on either side of him, and he smirked. He wasn't as good at this as Kranz was, but he knew what to do to get a good reaction. He wasn’t going to let himself be beat in any arena. 

Momentarily stopping to wet his fingers, Baldor pressed his middle finger to his partner’s hole, quickly followed by his index. He worked him open, not quite gently but thoroughly enough, enough that there shouldn’t be any blood. Enough that Kranz was now fully hard and pressing against Baldor’s fingers, meeting his thrusts.

He pulled back, removed his fingers. Paused for a moment, smirked to himself. It was a little hard, but he found the headboard, the pillows, and he lay down on his back. He looked, generally, in the direction of where Kranz was. “Ride me.” he said, “you’re not going to get tired if you don’t work for it.” 

A moment later he felt Kranz move, the weight of his partner now on top of him, warm against his thighs, heavy and solid. The man shifted, lining himself up, one hand around Baldor’s cock to hold it in place as he brought his hips down. As it always was, it was tight, so fucking tight, and he let out a long, soft moan as he slipped in, inch by inch, until he felt the weight of Kranz’s body against his hips. 

He listened, to Kranz’s breathing, slow, deep, as he got used to it. Then the man began to move, one hand on Baldor’s chest to anchor himself, brought his hips up and then right back down. 

“You can move faster than that.” 

He was right, Kranz definitely could, setting a quick, hard pace. Baldor reached out, one hand on each of his partner’s thighs, fingers digging into the flesh and muscle. He could feel scar tissue beneath his fingers, old and new, though the difference was less distinct these days. Eventually, it would all fade into one continuous lattice of damaged skin, every injury undistinguishable from the next. 

Quickly, or not, who really knew, the sweat beading on Kranz’s skin made it hard to hold on, fingers slipping down the man’s thighs. Baldor just held on tighter. 

He couldn’t see it but he could hear it, Kranz had his other hand wrapped around his cock. The man’s movements began to falter, the pace of his hips slowing, stuttering, as he got close to release.  So Baldor grabbed his partner's hips, thumbs settling in the divot just inside the hipbone, and thrust his own body up. 

He felt Kranz tighten, heard him let out a short, tight gasp. It took only a few thrusts more and Kranz came, all over Baldor’s chest, 

But Baldor wasn't done yet, so he tightened his grip on his partner and continued to thrust, getting a sound of not quite pain but not quite pleasure form his partner. 

“Ah, d-don-t,” Kranz’s voice was thin, “not so-" 

“Shut up. You’ll be fine.”

Now both of Kranz’s hands were on his chest, supporting himself, trying to find purchase, short nails digging into his skin. Pressing down hard enough, with enough weight, that it was hard to breath. Good. More of that. Until his lungs hurt, vision tinted black on the fringes. Not that he’d be able to notice in the dark. Until he couldn’t  breathe at all. 

He wasn’t entirely sure, but it felt like skin broke under his fingers, making it harder to hold on, and he came seconds later. 

His hips slowed, stopped, and the room was silent save for their breathing. Kranz’s arms buckled, and he lay, exhausted, on top of Baldor, heavy and very warm and slick with sweat. The entire room was like that, really, air stuffy and hot, oppressive. But not in a bad way. After a long moment of stillness he shifted, pulling out, hands coming to rest, gently, on his partner’s thighs. 

“Tiring enough?” he asked, voice raspy, punctuated by still labored breathing, an attempt to bring in the  oxygen he’d been deprived of. 

“I think so.” 

He felt a hand on his cheek, and Kranz’s lips met his, in a kiss that was far softer than the one beforehand. The tiny cut he’d made earlier had closed up already, but he could still taste the blood on his partner's lips and in his mouth. He bit down on the same place, but gently enough as to not reopen the wound. 

“Then go to bed already.” he said, pulling back, “We’re still going to have to wake up at a decent time, you know.” 

“Alright.” 

The bed shifted, creaked, and Kranz got up, his weight and warmth gone. It was a weird feeling, Baldor realizing that he missed it as soon as it was gone. Huh. He wiped his chest off with the sheet, tossed that to the floor, and pulled the covers over himself. It was a little different, doing all this at a time when it wasn't spurred on by already existing adrenaline. When they weren't bloody and still aching for a fight. He still felt sated, but it was different. 

Maybe because it wasn’t fucking for an outlet of pent-up passion and adrenaline. Just sex for the sake of sex. But no, that wasn't quite it either. That  wasn't why he’d invited Kranz into his bed. It was more like, well, intimacy for comfort. 

There was no point in comfort. It was something neither of them had had, ever. Something they’d never had need for, because comfort was a liability, something that made you soft, vulnerable, more likely to make a mistake, hesitate, be the cause of someone else’s death, be the cause of a target  escaping alive. 

All they needed was adrenaline, pain and pleasure, enough to get the blood pumping. 

He could hear Kranz’s breathing slow into a sleeping rhythm, and he smiled, closing his eyes.

…

When he thought about it the next day, sitting in the back of a helicopter, waiting to get to the next location they needed to be at, maybe it had always been like this. It wasn't as if that first time, he’d gone out with the express purpose of fucking to clear out the excitement of battle that was still running through his veins. He’d, well, he wasn’t too sure what he’d meant to do. 

Intrusively, he thought about that one time drinking with  Jenos . Talking about women and violence and all that. About brushing off the need to correct his attitude to attract a partner. Most of his thoughts about that night remained the same. He didn’t need to change his attitude.  Jenos was annoying. He had no desire to go out, meet a woman, and fuck her. 

But. The part that had changed. The part about wanting a partner, having a partner, being intimate. Things he’d never have expected to change his mind about. 

But had anything changed, really? Had it? He’d always had a partner. Just in a different sense. But a partner nonetheless. 

Well, it was different, because now he’d found a reason to work with his partner instead of them both fighting independently beside each other. 

He frowned, glancing over at Kranz for a moment before he chose to look out the window instead.

…

“What are we going to do now?” 

Baldor took a piece of gum from his pocket, popped it into his mouth. The target had been more prepared than they’d expected, and as soon as they had arrived on the property, a helicopter had taken off, too far away for either of them to take it down. They must have been expected. There must have been some counter-espionage. Damn it. 

“We follow them.” he said, throwing the car into reverse. “They aren’t in a very big  helicopter, they can’t get too far.” 

“It doesn't sound very large at all. Maybe a couple hours of flight, at most.” 

“Exactly. If we drive fast  enough we’ll be able to keep pace and deal with them when they land.” 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Baldor saw Kranz nod in agreement. They both knew he could drive fast. They would be fine. 

Leaving the estate’s long driveway, Baldor sped down the highway, keeping the helicopter in view. It was ahead of them, and would stay that way, but a craft like that probably wasn't all that fast. It would all be fine. They would bring their  target down, no matter what. 

Maybe they could call in to Chronos, get a helicopter dispatched to be in pursuit. Get a gun big enough to take the craft down while still in flight. But they didn’t need back up. Hell no. They’d get it done themselves, and enjoy doing it. He’d made the decision, and Kranz had accepted it, and that always worked out for them. 

For not the first time, he wondered about that. 

He knew he was smart. Of course he was. Sure, he knew why sometimes (often) people thought he was the dumb one and Kranz was the intelligent one. But that didn’t change the fact that he was close to being a genius, if he did say so himself. There was a reason he wielded Heimdall and no one else could even come close to using it, let alone master such a weapon.

But that didn’t mean Kranz was dumb. No, he was smart too, battle-tested and tactical and, honestly, more level headed most of the time. Anyone would assume he’d make better decisions than Baldor would. 

But, who knew? 

Baldor glanced away from the road to look up at the helicopter. The craft was veering to the right. 

Had Kranz ever refuted his decision? Ever disagreed, done the  opposite of what he’d said? He tried, but couldn’t think of a single instance where that had happened.

“What’s bothering you?” 

“Nothing- wait, how can you tell?” 

“How could I not?” Kranz replied, and by now Baldor shouldn’t be  surprised . “So?” 

“Ah, well...” He grappled with finding the right way to voice his thoughts. “Why do you always ask me what we’re going to do next?” 

“We can’t both make the decision. It’s easier, and quicker, if just one of us does.” 

Well, that was an infuriatingly simple and logical answer. “But still. Why did you go and decide that I would be the one to make the decisions?” 

“ Because I trust you.” 

Momentarily taking his eyes of the road, he glanced over at Kranz. Who was facing him, head turned ever so lightly, as if he was making eye  contact. He wasn't, obviously, but the man still made the effort when talking to people, if only to appear more normal. As if they’d ever done anything  _ normally _ .

“And you like to talk.” 

“Shut up. So what? I do always make the right decision, anyways.” 

“You do.” Kranz smiled at him, “You know, there’s a reason we’re partners.” He said, and that was all he said, and Baldor had to agree that nothing more had to, or could be, said about it. 

...

He woke up, early enough, with the summer sun streaming through a crack in the blinds. Brushing his hair back from his face, which wasn't very effective, he sat up, scratching his jaw, at the stubble that had grown in overnight. And he looked over, where Kranz was laying, still sleeping, pale hair wild and falling in his face. 

It was hard to tell, with a face all scarred like that, but when Kranz slept he was relaxed. He had a tendency to clench his jaw, but that relaxed when he slept, and as a result his jawline was a little bit softer. Not that it was something really noticeable, just something you would pick up when you’d known someone for this long. When you’d at some point in time ended up sleeping in the same bed as someone, and sometimes woke up first.

It was impossible not to, so Baldor looked at his partner’s scars. He was used to how Kranz looked now, it had been years, and even if the injuries had faded somewhat over time they would never disappear completely. And time wouldn’t reconnect an optic nerve, recreate two perfectly functioning eyes. 

It wasn’t as if Kranz had had particularly nice eyes, if Baldor could be the judge of such things. Normal eyes, really, a plain brown, serious and mostly stoic but alight with a manic gleam during battle. And good vision. Kranz had always had such good vision.

Not that it mattered anymore. Kranz was just as, if not more, lethal than he’d been beforehand. But still. 

A thought Baldor sometimes had, at times like this when he was tired, groggy, brain not so guarded, filtered into his conscious thoughts.  _ If you hadn’t been so close to the target,  _ he thought, looking at Kranz _ , you would have been that close to the bomb. You would have never been caught in the explosion. If only... the Time Guardian that was there had been someone who fought with a longer-range weapon. Then everything could have been avoided. _

It wasn’t a thought he liked, but it was unavoidable. It would always pop back in his mind, no matter how far back he pushed it. A pity, because it brought about emotions that for the most part, he didn’t feel at all. Guilt, maybe. Regret? Disappointment, in the higher-ups, that was for sure. Anger, of course, that was expected. A little bit of pity, and that was the worst one. 

He chuckled softly to himself. Even being trained to be a heartless assassin from birth wasn’t enough to suppress and kill all emotions, apparently. He’d figured that out, maybe recently, maybe he’d figured it all along. 

“What’s so funny this early in the morning?” Kranz asked, voice soft, almost inaudible, sounding still mostly asleep.

“That woke you up? Seriously?” he laughed again. 

“You’re louder than you think you are.” 

Maybe he was. Oh well. “I was just looking at your face.” 

Kranz frowned. “And that made you laugh?” 

“No, shut up. Of course not. I was just thinking. About things.” 

It was very much like Kranz not to push for him to extrapolate. The man just brushed his hair out of his face before sitting up, yawning. Amid the faded scars on his neck, there were a few fresh red marks, some of which would reveal themselves as bruises, some as  teeth marks. 

And then he spoke, softly, “You know, one of these days, I’m going to forget what your face looks like.” 

The was a somber edge to his voice, which wasn’t enough to stop Baldor from replying with “Is that a bad thing.”

“Ah. Well... yes.” 

Not the answer he’d expected, and Baldor could feel the heat rising to his cheeks as he prayed that Kranz was not preceptive enough to notice it. He opened his mouth to say some snarky retort, but then closed it, drawing his lips into a tight line. What was he supposed to say to that? Well, of course, if you didn’t see something for long enough, you’d forget it. And when you couldn’t see anything... would you eventually forget what everything looked like? 

“You haven’t forgotten what I look like yet?” he asked, eventually. 

“No, that’s one of the things I’m trying hard not to forget.” Baldor could see the realization cross Kranz’s face as the man thought about what he’d said. A faint blush colored his cheeks. “I mean... I just don’t...” 

He never finished the sentence, but Baldor didn’t care what else he had to say. He was too busy trying to rationalize why hearing that was making his heart beat so fast. Why, it was just words? Why? 

He reached out, took Kranz’s hand in both of his. A strong hand, larger than his own, skin pale except for the pink burns that wound around each finger, across the palm, reached up his wrist and even farther. And he brough Kranz’s hand up, to his face, rough palm against his cheek.

“Then don’t forget.” he said, “ Don't you dare. Your other senses are even better now, right? Just use your touch to remind yourself.” 

For a moment Kranz was silent, mouth slightly open in surprise, but then he smiled. “Your face feels very warm.” he said, brushing his thumb across the ridge of Baldor’s cheekbone.

“Shut up.” 

Kranz laughed, placing his other hand on Baldor’s other cheek, “No.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Pls kudos and comment, let me know I'm not the only one still present in the Black Cat fandom :)
> 
> Tumblr: https://darknebulablader.tumblr.com


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